


haar jetii

by a_terrible_pun



Series: ponderings on tarre vizsla [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Forces of Destiny (Web Series), Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: >:(, Character Study, Gen, I reject your canon and substitute my own, No Dialogue, Oneshot, if lucasfilms won't develop tarre i'll do it by myself, she/they tarre vizsla rights but for ease of writing i used she
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_terrible_pun/pseuds/a_terrible_pun
Summary: Tarre has always felt out of place with the Jedi - too passionate and too much of a warrior. The mission to the Mandalore Sector helps with that.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Tarre Vizsla & Original Characters, Tarre Vizsla & Original Jedi Character(s)
Series: ponderings on tarre vizsla [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121441
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	haar jetii

**Author's Note:**

> so. I've been obsessed with Tarre Vizsla for the last few weeks, creating headcanons and art until my brain just went "hey... maybe you should write this." And here I am.  
> Timeline notes: I've chosen to set this around 4100 BBY, so about 100 years before the Mandalorian Wars and Revan.  
> Mando'a notes: I've been using the archaic -a pluralizer, instead of the modern -e, as well as a few other more archaic words. Translations in end notes.  
> (this is the first in what'll likely be a series of one-shots about tarre. no darksaber in this one, sorry lads)

There are few Taungs left when Tarre Vizsla is born. Many of them have fallen—to war, to disease, to old age—and few leave behind true Taung offspring. Still, manymando’ada have Taung blood. You can see it in the grayness of their skin, the sharpness of their teeth, and for some the great ridges on their skulls. Tarre himself is born with eyes that are not entirely human—they shine bright yellow in the dark, feline in their shape and the slits of their pupils. 

He’s unusual in other ways too—the first time his mother catches him levitating out of his crib in the creche, she nearly drops a plate in shock. Shock quickly turns to a sort of half pride and half pain, caught between pride in her son’s abilities and sadness that she’ll have to surrender him to the Jedi. She could raise him herself, but she knows it won’t be good for him—he’ll be forced to press his power down, hide bits of himself and force himself under the Force-suppressing weight of beskar’gam.

His powers grow far too fast, shifting and changing everything within months of his birth. There’s no way she can keep this secret, especially when he starts speaking, babbling about some sort of things he’s seeing. It’s odd, because she’s never heard of any sort of black-bladed sword before. These things he’s seeing—visions, she thinks she should be calling them—take him in waves, making him shudder and shake with pain. She talks to her husband, Tarre’s father, and both agree:

Better to let him go to the Jedi, to say farewell to their son now and hope for a better life for him. To try to bridge the gap between Mandalorian and Jedi, to smooth over years of bad blood. So she presses her forehead to his in a last kiss, bundles him up in a blanket, and leaves him on the steps of the Jedi temple to be found at dawn, with nothing but a scrap of flimsi with his name and clan scribbled down clenched in his tiny fist. 

It’s still sad, as all partings are, but it relieves something that’s been burning into her chest, poisoning her every thought about her son. He’s safe now, even if she isn’t with him. He’ll have the care and training he needs.

At the age of three, it is discovered that Tarre has a rare gift in force powers—reverse psychometry. Instead of sensing the past of an object, he can see its future: he sees the future younglings the creche will hold, the next meals that will be picked up on his fork, even the next person to step onto the doorstep of the creche.

Once, he grabs a Padawan’s robes to catch her attention, and reels from the shock of sensing her death on her next mission. He tells the first master he can find, her master, all about his vision, but the master scolds him for joking in bad taste about her first mission. He pleads with them, but to no avail: she goes on the mission. 

Her death is news in the temple, and rattles Tarre—he begs the quartermaster for gloves, rationalizing that if he can’t sense the future he won’t be as affected. The gloves become a part of him, as much a part of his uniform as the tunic or the robe or the boots. The experience, though, sticks with him—he knows how it feels to die now.

Tarre doesn’t think he’s ever met his mother. He knows nothing of her. Still, he thinks he might know what she looks like—he has an impression of short red hair, kind blue eyes, and a sad smile. In the creche, he and the other younglings talk of what little they know of their parents. Who they were, where they came from (the temple has records, but none of the little ones have access). 

All the younglings wonder where they’re from. For some, it is obvious: the Twi’leks and Togruta know their homeworlds. It is more difficult to discover for the humans, but some work out that they were born on Kiffar, others are Korun, and one girl is Stewjoni. Tarre can’t ever seem to find information on his homeworld, however. He knows he has certain non-human mutations. Nobody in the creche can forget the time he was caught sneaking snacks at night and his eyes flashed bright yellow in the near-darkness. Still, though, he can’t find anything about _who_ has these mutations—there’s nothing in the Archives (that he can access), and all the masters are mysteriously silent on the matter.

He’s tried asking masters, once or twice; even questioned the crechemaster to find out who brought him into the temple. The Knight who found him told him that he was found on the steps of the temple, and that that was that. He says, also, that his name was written on a scrap of flimsi, and that there was no parent’s name or any identification besides that. Something of what he’s saying feels off, but Tarre doesn’t know what it is. Still, his words don’t sound right in Tarre’s ears. 

He has a friend in the creche, the Stewjoni girl who’s part of Wolf Clan with him. They’re close, especially for Jedi, fast friends as soon as they meet and bond in the Force. Wolf Clan is for younglings with significant natural abilities like his psychometry, and she has the ability to see shatterpoints. Their mental bond allows them to communicate, and her sense for shatterpoints combined with his abilities to sense futures allows them to predict almost every major change in the Temple together. They predict Padawanships, deaths and new younglings in the creche, and even the moment the crechemaster is accepted onto the High Council.

They offer their congratulations to xem before the announcement is even made, befuddling the poor crechemaster who has no idea why xey’re being congratulated on something xey’re unaware of. And two days later, the announcement is made, and the crechemaster begins to have suspicions about the two younglings with such an uncanny gift. How do they work together so well that they even speak in chorus?

When he becomes an initiate and is given his first training lightsaber, he can’t stop himself from peeling off a glove to press his bare skin to the hilt. With that first glimpse, he sees a series of training forms. Some sort of instinct has him spinning the saber around as though it’s an extension of himself. Somehow, the round hilt feels wrong in his hand, and the golden glow of the saber is… not what he was expecting. Still, his instincts serve him well, and he rockets to the top of the class. They start learning the first form, Shii-Cho, and the memories in his saber tell him that this form will serve him well but not define him. Even so, it is a good form. His closest friend at that point is also his only competition—they spar whenever they can get a free practice time. (He defeats her nine times out of ten, though, and she learns to cherish that one-in-ten.) 

Makashi comes next, when Tarre is around 11, and the most graceful of the 4 forms is also the one most elusive for Tarre. The lightsaber in his hand doesn’t want to move in the elegant, sweeping blows of the dance-like form, and his feet don’t dance across the floor like the Masters of the temple. Soresu is easier, the Resilience Form playing into Tarre’s natural stubbornness. The blaster practice is child’s play for him, memories in his ‘saber and the flow of the Force around him. He always seems to connect with the Force best in battle. 

But his favorite form is Ataru. The aggressive form suits him perfectly, with his ability to channel the Force into his blows and his jumps making him a force to be reckoned with. The saber blurs in his hands, that’s how fast he’s moving, flipping and dodging and letting blows push him through the air. Jar’kai also comes naturally to him, as he can split his focus between his blades and use them in harmony.

Even as his lightsaber skills outshine the rest of his class, he can’t seem to apply the same thing to his other work. The Force doesn’t speak to him as it does to the other initiates. He can’t clear his head like them while meditating, and he definitely can’t achieve the peaceful state that they seem to fall into as easily as breathing. He doesn’t understand many metaphysical concepts, and can’t grasp things he can’t experience himself—he can pick a lock and drive a speeder, but isn’t able to understand the intricacies of chemistry or the counterintuitive math they teach him.

It frustrates him, and he finds himself working out his anger in the gym. He runs through his katas until sweat runs down his face and his muscles tremble too much to even pick up his lightsaber. Even as he’s working through the katas, moving smoothly with nothing in his head but the movements of the saber, he doesn’t feel empty-minded. Instead, he is focused, with his vision narrowing in on the blade and only the blade, working as though it is an extension of himself. The bare skin he has against the hilt constantly informs him, guiding him and letting him flow through the movements.

Other people use the gym while he’s there, but he doesn’t notice them, really, too intent on working out his frustration. He’s in there almost every other day, as he sees even younger initiates work past him, advancing more with the force than he did. It's especially frustrating when he sees them crafting lightsabers, as he's not far enough in his studies and mastery of the Force to be allowed to venture to Ilum. There are trials he’ll have to take, ways to prove his understanding and commitment to the Light. And while he is committed, he cannot put his understanding in action—he seems to be approaching the Force from an entirely different perspective than the Jedi.

Tarre’s friend gives him a trinket, a shiny ring of phirik metal. He thanks her—she brought it home from a mission, said she thought of him when buying it. It’s too wide to wear on his finger, so he strings it on a necklace and wears it close to his heart. It has tiny gems embedded in it, clear stones winking in the light. When he’s nervous—about anything—he finds his hand coming to the ring, twisting it between his fingers. It lets him feel as though his friend is there with him, even when they’re worlds away. The memories there are warm, hopeful.

He starts training with the older Padawans, as his power is allowing him to far outpace the initiates his age, and they teach him about all sorts of concepts, both lightsaber-related and otherwise. This is a period of discovery for him, from discovering new Jedi traditions and planetary cultures to self-discovery. One day, an older initiate mentions some people not identifying as their assigned gender, and she figures out something that’s been sitting not quite right with her for a while. With this discovery comes growth, both metaphorical and literal, as she shoots up a foot in height and is taken as a Padawan. 

Her new Master, a Kel Dor, is stern but kind. She’s selected, at the age of fifteen, after she wins a display spar with tight maneuvers from Soresu before switching seamlessly to her preferred form Ataru. She stands over her opponent—a Padawan several years older than her and with experience in the field—panting but flushed with victory. The sharp glint in her too-yellow eyes speaks of her heritage, and the Masters in the temple can all-too-easily see her as a Mandalorian warrior, standing over a Jedi’s body with her sword clenched in her gloved hand.

The Force and her Master are light in the world, and she feels at ease. Content, even without her lightsaber.

Then she discovers that her friend has Fallen.

It is a blow hard and painful, gutting her more effectively than any blade. Her closest friend—her friend since the _creche_ —has succumbed to the Dark, has _lost herself_ in the Force. Their bond is severed, snapped like a too-tight elastic. She misses her, the ache cutting into her chest, pressing down on her heart. The necklace around her throat feels cold on her skin. It weighs on her throughout the years. 

She partially feels it’s because of her that her friend fell, that she wasn’t strong enough or knowledgeable to help her back from that edge. She’s _failed_ her truest friend, the one that’s been with her since the _creche_. She’s not a good Jedi, not a good Padawan, and not a good friend. 

Her master treats her kindly and Tarre grows fond of him. He trains her in all the Force techniques she’s never used before, learning to become one with the Force, guiding her actions and obeying her commands. They become close, complementing each other in both of their battlefields: the duel and the negotiation table. He is nothing like her, but they have an understanding of each other: she is bold where he is kind, he is wise where she is intelligent, and together they balance each other.

The one thing that she excels at, other than lightsaber combat, is diplomacy. It doesn’t seem like it’s a skill she should have, given her more violent, direct nature. But she’s excellent with a negotiation, crafting treaties and bringing justice to those who need it—with a blaster, if need be. She has a sharp and cold eye for injustice, as well as a way with words. Her master teaches her how to sneak around a point—how to persuade someone over to her side without them knowing—and how to apply a small mind-trick, just enough to push them over that edge. 

She does get better with the Force over time, and her Master teaches her new ways to reach for it—to become one with that great energy, to guide her and power her. She still finds it easiest to reach in battle, to become one and focused on one goal. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, she thinks. She’s approaching her trials, her Master guiding her in the Force. She thinks, after their next mission, he may take her to Ilum. 

They meet a Darksider on their next mission, a Fallen Padawan— _Tarre’s friend—_ who spits at their feet when Tarre extends a hand to ask her back to the Light. The padawan lunges at them with a lightsaber—the crystal is still hale and blue and _screaming_ in the Force—and must have some more training than her age would indicate. She’s blocking Tarre’s shots easily while duelling her Master, her face twisted in fury. Tarre can do nothing to help her master—sitting there, blaster useless in her hand—until finally her master slips up and the Padawan slices through his throat. She disappears moments after, leaving the battlefield, but Tarre can feel her eyes on them. Her attention is caught by her master’s faint breath through his mask, however.

Tarre holds him as he lies, dying, the last breath in his lungs fluttering Tarre’s hair as she presses their foreheads together in some snippet of instinct. When he has passed fully into the Force, her eyes drift closed. She stands, letting his body drop to the ground, and pulls the lightsaber from his corpse to her hand. The memories are briefly overwhelming, but she grits her teeth and clenches her fist and keeps moving. She ignites it, the blade burning green against the sky, and stalks toward the Padawan. Her eyes are narrowed, predatory like a shriek-hawk and twice as golden. 

A growl, deep in her throat, is the only warning before she strikes. The blade is bitter in her hands, singing its lone and mournful tune. And she leaps through the trees and down onto the Padawan, blood pounding like thunder in her veins and lightning crackling through her nerves.

Not just in her nerves, she realizes, seeing a bolt of black electricity spark from her off hand. No, the electricity is around her, and with some excitement she realizes she’s channeling the Force like she’s heard other Jedi speak of. 

And then their sabers clash.

Tarre loses herself in the fight, moving only as the Force commands, forcing the padawan back. With every clash of their sabers, her resolve grows. Strangely, she doesn’t feel angry. There’s no rage consuming her, no hatred coursing through her veins. All she feels is a desire to make things _just._ An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a head for a head—

She pushes the Padawan back with a powerful blow, and sweeps her feet under her, bringing her to her knees. In the space of a heartbeat, her master’s lightsaber is at the Padawan’s throat, and she sees a change in her eyes—a pleading, a spark of the Light—like she could be brought back—and words form on her lips—

And then her head rolls in the dirt.

After the battle—no, after the _execution—_ there is silence. Stillness. And Tarre breaks down. The two corpses by her—the people she couldn’t save—their eyes burn deep into her soul. She’s fought before—killed before, seen the light leave people’s eyes and their consciousness fade into the force—but never like this, never seen a corpse so _personally_. Her friend’s hair, red as a flame, spreads like a pool of blood from her head. She’s imagining the blame in their eyes—right? Her friend, her _master,_ both dead in the dirt. Because she couldn’t save them. She _couldn’t-_

Tears splash hot down her face and into the dust at her feet. They pool and she _screams_ from the pain of loss, from the knowledge that no matter _what_ , she will never see her friend or master again. Her necklace burns into her chest. Finally, she pulls herself together, roughly wiping the tears from her face. She straightens her tabards and pulls her cloak on, holstering her blaster and hooking the lightsaber to her belt, and proceeds with the mission. She’s cold throughout, cold and stern, face carved of marble and sharp broken glass. The mission succeeds. If it can be called a success.

With no time to waste on a mediocre Padawan, the Jedi assign her to a new master—a Zabrak this time—and she immediately starts training her again. In a few days, she’s allowed to go to Ilum—she’s not sure if she’s earned it, but her new master is requiring her to go. And she has been looking forward to this, of course. It’s been her dream to get her own lightsaber.

She takes her to Ilum to craft her first lightsaber, the cold wind biting into her skin but doing nothing to diminish her excitement. When she reaches up and out with the Force, the door of the Temple moves with her, sliding open to reveal a black cave studded with star-like crystals. She bows to her master and then plunges into the dark.

She walks through the cave, strips off a glove to brush the walls, and feels the Force sing in harmony. The songs of the crystals serve to guide her through the cave, the melodies of each crystal swelling around her. The vergence of the force that surrounds Ilum nearly overwhelms her, dark and light sparking in equal balance behind her eyes. Then the vergence surrounds her and forces her to her knees. She sees nothing but a bright glow, blinding white light surrounding her. 

There’s a figure pushing through the brightness to her, someone with a dark cloak whipping around them and a hood over their face. _Who are you_ echoes around them, until the figure draws a lightsaber. Tarre, operating off some instinct, reaches to her belt and readies her lightsaber—a blue blade. Her opponent has red, and Tarre prepares to battle. 

Tarre clenches the saber in her hand, raises it to a guard in front of her face, and moves to parry the first blow without even being consciously aware of it. And then they’re duelling, evenly matched somehow, flipping and dodging and meeting each other’s blows as though it’s a dance. There’s a shimmer in the air like a heat haze, rising every time they make contact and spiraling around them like smoke. Blue clashes on red and red clashes on blue, at least until Tarre spots a lucky slip in her opponent’s defence and kicks them in the chest. They’re knocked onto their back and their hood comes off, revealing— _Tarre’s own face?_ Her eyes are Sith-yellow, veins blackened.

 _This is what you could become,_ something whispers. This is what happened to her friend, to Fall into the dark. And Tarre has never been that good of a Jedi, too impulsive, too combative, already emotional and weakened by broken bonds. _It could be so easy,_ the Force murmurs around her. _She’s already down. Kill her._ She’s not Light, not Good, she could just _kill her_ , end a _Sith_ \- No. She will not. This is not _just_. If she had killed? If she was a _threat?_ Yes, she would end her. But Tarre will _not_ kill a defeated enemy. Not again.

The vision fades, the blinding light leaving her eyes, and Tarre can see Ilum again. There’s a new call now, that there wasn’t before, a call that winds in her Force-signature and sings through her veins. Her crystal. 

It’s not deep in the cave—only a couple more passages down, and Tarre has her kyber. It’s a vivid sapphire, sparkling in the faint light. Tarre kneels, unwrapping the sachet of lightsaber parts she brought with her—she was searching for them throughout the days before coming to Ilum. The crowning piece of the saber is her ring, at the very tip. 

When she activates the blade for the first time, it thrums in her hand, lighting her through to her bones. She feels as though she glows with it. 

The hilt is wrapped with leather, the ends are squared off, and the lightsaber rests at her side like a friend. It has its place on her belt, the opposite hip from her blaster, and she’s prepared to battle. She briefly considers wearing armor before dismissing it as foolish. 

She emerges from the cavern, unveiling her blade for her master. It is beautifully blue in the cold air. She flourishes it a few times, reveling in the hum as it slices through the air. Her master tells her she’s done well. The blade heats her face against the cold Ilum air. Its rich blue blends with the sky as she raises her clenched fist.

The blood pulses in her veins, pounding a vicious, victorious rhythm in her heart. It’s like drums, echoing through her chest and invigorating her entire body, filling her with the energy of a thousand Ilums. The Force is with her.

Tarre returns, triumphant, to the Temple. Kneeling before the Grandmaster, she recites the Jedi Code, and then she is sent on another mission—a Trial, to prove herself ready for Knighthood. She and her master are being sent to the Mandalore sector, on a supposedly _peacekeeping_ mission—though knowing the Mandalorians, Tarre isn’t sure how long that’ll last. They’ve been commanded to negotiate a treaty between two rival factions on a disputed world. 

She and her master wear street clothes, carefully concealing their lightsabers under layers of fabric. The Mandalorians aren’t openly hostile, but they have a long and bloody history with the Jedi, so it’s better to be safe than sorry. Mandalorian armor is force-muffling, and Tarre _really_ doesn’t want to be attacked just because she was unable to judge someone’s emotions. From what she can recall of the background information she read, this world is controlled by one of the greatest Mandalorian houses—house Vizsla. It’s far from the center of Mandalorian space—Mandalore itself—and doesn’t have a major Mandalorian presence, which is likely the only reason they’re sending a Padawan like Tarre on this mission.

Still, she worries. They’re not technically breaking the law—they never said they _weren’t_ Jedi, only that they were here on a diplomatic mission—but the bad blood between the Jedi and the Mandalorians runs deep. There’s a chance, slight that it may be, that they’ll be recognized, accused of trespass or espionage or whatever else the Mandalorians could blame a Jedi for. And to make matters worse, she’s getting strange looks from the people on the street—double takes and glances back, people saying _wait, is that-_ and never finishing within her earshot. 

She wouldn’t think she’d be widely known outside of her tiny clique in the Temple, let alone in _Mandalorian Space._ It’s baffling. If she weren’t trying to stay out of sight, she’d have interrogated the whisperers by now, asked them _who exactly_ they think she is. But no. Until the negotiations, and even after them, she’s supposed to blend in. Not draw attention. Do exactly the _opposite_ of what she _wants_ to do.

She is a Jedi, though. She can handle it.

The negotiations are smooth—despite being under Mandalore’s control, the factions don’t have the quickness to anger of their leaders. They settle on an agreement quickly, and eventually call in the leader of the House that controls the planet to confirm it. Clan Vizsla moves quickly, and within a standard week their head—the Mando’a word, Tarre learns, is Alor—arrives to the planet.

Her Master greets the Alor, and they prepare for the final confirmation—only for the Alor’s eyes to fall on Tarre and spark with recognition. And from there, Tarre is completely lost—and yet found. This is her _mother,_ the leader of Clan Vizsla, a _Mandalorian._ She’d deny it, but it somehow feels _right._ Her name is Tarre _Vizsla_ and she is Jedi and Mandalorian. The knowledge settles within her, like a weight finally lifted, and she is complete. 

_I know your name as my child,_ her mother tells her. It’s an adoption vow, she says, but it is more as well. It gives Tarre a soul, makes her part of the _Manda_ , brings her into the clan. She is Clan Vizsla now, her mother says. She also says that Tarre can stay with her clan on Mandalore, but Tarre must decline—her duty is to the Jedi first. And her mother knows about her being a Jedi, was the one who took her there. The one who left her on the steps of the Jedi Temple with nothing but a name and the Force. 

Her mother tells her more, about Mandalorian culture, traditions, even the language. Tarre is a quick learner, and this is no different—she’s quick to pick up Mando’a. She’s swearing like a Mandalorian within a few days of the meeting, and peppering Mandalorian words and turns of phrase throughout her speech in a few more. 

Then the negotiations are completed. In only a month, Tarre will be leaving the planet and her mother behind. So that’s one month for her to experience everything she’s been missing, everything she never had because of her powers. One month to be Mandalorian, before she must return to the Jedi. 

The first thing Tarre _truly_ learns about the Mandalorians is that everything she thought she knew was wrong. They aren’t unnecessarily violent, aren’t cruel. They’re passionate, true, and very open with their emotions—but they aren’t Dark. She can't understand it until her mother explains the Mandalorian gods to her. Kad Ha'rangir and Arasuum—change and stagnation. _Change_ is the most important part of Mandalorian life, not _good_ or _evil_. The Force, Tarre thinks, is similar. It is life and death, growth and rot, and it is constantly in flux. Death, rebirth and rot, the change that can only come from the removal of the old. 

She sees fights in the clan while she’s there, but they seem to be mostly training or display spars. She’s invited into the ring as well, only for unarmed and unarmored spars. The first spar, she loses, not used to fighting with her bare hands or to the dirtier tricks that the Mandalorians use. The next spar, however, she wins—with some _minor_ use of the Force. She considers it fair payback for _biting_ her the first time. She wears a kute and kama now, instead of her tunics, although she doesn’t have armor. There’s a variant of beskar for force-users, she’s told, but it takes time and resources to forge. She also hasn’t gone through a verd’goten, although her mother says she might make it a special case. She’s still a Jedi—she has trials to go through, and they’re similar enough to the verd’goten that it makes little sense for her to do both.

So she becomes Mandalorian, fully. She carries blasters, strapped to her legs and hidden in her boots, starts training with a beskad in conjunction with her saber, even picks up a couple of tricks with a flamethrower. Clan Vizsla is one of the most powerful Mandalorian clans, second only to Clan Ordo. Tarre falls in with their verda and ada easily, sparring and shit-talking with the best of them. But when the month is up, she returns to the Jedi— _chooses_ the Jedi—puts on robes and tunics again and only keeps _one_ blaster on her. The beskad stays sheathed at her back—she makes a point of asking some of the best Jar’kai masters in the temple to train her in fighting with two weapons. 

Before she leaves her mother gives her Mandalorian bracers. They have the golden tint of beskar for Force-wielders, specially forged to help channel the Force instead of blocking it. Tarre paints one red to honor her mother, with a streak of blue for reliability. The other she leaves blank. It’s her cin vhetin, her clean slate. 

She even reconfigures the hilt of her lightsaber, changing it to a square shape, more like a beskad. The ring stays at the head, of course, but the grip is elongated and flat. She also adds a small guard beneath the ring to mimic that of a beskad. Twirling the saber in one hand and the beskad in the other, she can put up an excellent guard, or launch into a flurry of blows that would overwhelm opponents. 

And that mission makes her a Knight, gives her a proper rank among the Jedi. She wears the tunics of a knight, with her bracers over her sleeves and gloves—still gloved, always gloved. She wasn’t a very good padawan, but she’s a _stellar_ knight, now that she can go on her own missions. She’s a fighter, primarily, sent to guard politicians and aid in planetary conflicts. Her talents in diplomacy are called upon less often, but they still serve her well—especially when osik hits the fan, as it were.

She mostly takes solo missions, even as a newer knight. Her talents are most suited to working alone, and she’s a good enough fighter that she doesn’t need anyone to watch her back. Especially because she wears armor, even beyond her bracers, tabards of armorweave and leather plates on her torso and arms. Jedi don’t wear armor, but _Mandalorians_ do, so she splits the difference. Weak armor, true, but it could make the difference between life and death someday. Her missions are often near or in the Mandalore sector—she has contacts and clan there.

She takes a mission to Taris. Apparently, someone’s been killing people and animals brutally down below the glittering heights. There’s no _strong_ anti-Jedi sentiment, but there could be all kinds of people frequenting the planet’s seedy cantinas and seedier alleyways. Bounty hunters and assassins of all stripes. Anyone could be looking for a Jedi prize. Her lightsaber stays clearly on her hip, a threat to anyone who thinks about trying it. 

She finds her target, a half-mad Mandalorian who had been terrorizing the lower levels. She calls out to him in his language, carefully shifting to hide her saber, and waits for his reaction. He recognizes her as Mandalorian first, gaze on the bracers and beskad. Hesitantly, he responds, and she pulls him out into the light. His beskar’gam is beaten and bloody, and he doesn’t seem to have fared much better. She asks him his clan. Skirata, he says, and she sees their sigil in the chipped paint of his armor.

She steps into the darkness for a brief moment and looks back at him. Her eyes flash their feline yellow in the dark, and he stiffens, drawing to attention. _Taung’ad,_ he calls her. What that means, she doesn’t know, but it seems to be a term of respect. She’ll take it if it means he’ll follow her instead of being dragged out cold. When she’s handed him over to Clan Skirata, she’s heartily thanked by their clan leader and given a bit of beskar as a token—about enough to make a singular pauldron.

She visits a Vizsla world to get her pauldron forged with the clan sigil. The shriek-hawk is raised from the metal and painted green—responsibility—and settled on her right shoulder. While it’s being forged, the clan armorer teaches her music—chants in time with the clanging of hammer and pounding of metal. When she’s on the world, she also witnesses a honor duel—descended from the blood duels of the old Taungs—the challenge spoken and vengeance declared for a dead lover. The duel ends with surrender—it’s not _honorable_ to kill aliit. 

Taung’ad, she discovered, means a Mandalorian descended from the Taung, the ancient species that started Mandalorian culture. Her father was one, and she is too. Her yellow eyes—which she’s wondered about for a long time—are a sign of her Taung lineage. More is pointed out to her, her dense muscles, greyish skin, and faint ridges along her skull all calling back to the old Taung. 

She thinks she’s considered the Jedi expert on Mandalorians at this point, sent on plenty of missions to negotiate within the Mandalore sector and the Mandalorian Empire as a whole. She speaks their language—literally and metaphorically—and can reason with them the Mandalorian way. The Republic trusts her for being a Jedi, and the Mandalorians trust her for being Taung-descended. She gains more beskar every mission with the Mando’ada, plates for her boots, upper arms, a second pauldron and a chestplate. All of it is painted with Vizsla clan sigils and bright red, green, and blue.

She advises the Council and the Senate on the Mandalorians, becoming rather well acquainted with the Councilors and certain Senators. One of the Councilors recommends that she take a Padawan, and she acquiesces. Her new padawan is a Togruta with a gift for combat, just like Tarre; unlike Tarre, the padawan favors the Soresu form. Tarre’s a quick study, however, she learns enough Soresu to be able to teach her and improve her own technique as well. 

They’re a good pair, Tarre and her new padawan, complimenting each other and using their skills as a benefit to the Jedi as a whole. Tarre also takes the time to raise the child with some Mandalorian ways as well, teaches her how to use a blaster and wear armor. The kid is a vicious fighter. Tarre is proud of her, especially when she kicks the shebs of an older, meaner padawan during a spar. It's just justice—the padawan was rude and made threats, and Tarre's padawan—her ad—called him on them. 

Tarre takes her padawan to Ilum once she's through the first Trial, waiting outside the ice caves until she's through and out with a green lightsaber. _Well done,_ Tarre tells her. She’ll be a fine Jedi soon. Just one more trial to go.

For her last trial, Tarre takes her on a mission to the Mandalore sector, just as her master did before her. This time, they’re operating on a treaty that Tarre helped negotiate, allowing them to put down a Sith threat. The Sith is strong, true, but Tarre and her padawan are stronger. The Sith was also targeting a Vizsla stronghold, and Tarre won’t admit it, but that was a factor on her rush to take the mission. _Nobody_ should face the Sith, but Tarre’s family… well, she’s Mandalorian. It’s part of the Resol’nare, and even if she hasn’t sworn it yet, she’s still upholding it. When Tarre tells her family she’s adopted her child, they give her padawan bracers and pauldrons. They have the symbol of the Jedi Order on them, the starbird with spread wings picked out in blue. 

To her, they give a buy’ce, the Vizsla symbol emblazoned on the golden beskar. It’s the last piece of her armor, and she feels more complete with it in place. She needs to train with it—she’s unused to fighting with a HUD or any sort of head protection, let alone one that can block the blow of a lightsaber. She’s the spitting image of any Mandalorian verd now, at least until you notice the lightsaber hanging at her hip. The buy’ce she paints black—the color of _justice_.

They return to the Temple, master and padawan completing a mission together one last time. The braid is severed, the beads placed in Tarre’s hand, and her padawan is a knight now. It’s a happy time, but bittersweet as well. Tarre will miss her ad, even if she’s still there with the Jedi.

Her Padawan now knighted and off on her own, Tarre can return to her regular work with the Mandalorians. The Mand’alor is getting older and weaker, and a young member of Clan Keldau is gaining influence. Court politics aren’t Tarre’s specialty—aren’t really _any_ Mandalorian’s specialty, but she knows the Keldau will be better for Mandalore than the old Mand’alor and supports aer in aer coup. She doesn’t get her hands bloody, all the way within Republic space, but she calls in a few favors and sways Vizsla and Skirata opinion toward the Keldau. It’s not a very Jedi thing to do, but Tarre has been feeling less and less Jedi lately. 

A Sith in the core, on Corellia, distracts her from Mandalorian political maneuvering. There’s no _karking_ way that a Sith should’ve gotten so close, and it’s far, far too close for comfort. Tarre takes her lightsaber and a team of strong Jedi to deal with the Sith, easily cutting him down. When she slices him in half it is with cold satisfaction. This is just, she says to him. He endangered civilians, and now he pays the price. Her companions are… _wary_ of her after, but she’s still firmly in the Light. Her two blades—saber and beskad—she wields for good, for the Jedi.

She repaints her armor soon afterwards, covering the kar’ta beskar with black as well as her pauldrons. She also adds more detailing to the edges of her bracers, in black and blue, showing her devotion to justice and her duty to the Jedi and Mandalore.

Her next mission is in search of a youngling, a child lost to the slaving rings of the Outer Rim. The ad is pain in the Force, a trembling call that pierces through the normal symphony of force-signatures. Tarre feels it in her chest like a knife, the way the kid is hurting. The slavers are cowards, fleeing before the glow of her ‘saber and the harsh falling of her boots. She must look terrifying, she thinks, and can’t deny that it’s an appealing thought.

Her armor scares the poor child, however, and even taking off her buy’ce doesn’t help. The kid is frightened until Tarre starts projecting with the Force—something she’s never been skilled in—feelings of peace, warmth, family. What she feels with the Jedi… and with the Mandalorians. But she doesn’t have time to ruminate on that now, not with a snotty child clinging to her beskar’gam like a leech. The child’s parents are nowhere to be found, so Tarre brings them back into the Temple, depositing them into the creche and going to clean her armor.

There’s something calling to her. A call to the Mandalore sector, to Manda’yaim. Unfortunately, the call comes during a time of war for the Mandalorians. It is a time of chaos and a time of growth, and on second thought that’s likely _why_ she’s hearing the call now—it is a distinctly Mandalorian call.

The call pounds through her, echoing in her blood until she finally, _finally_ gets an assignment to Mandalore itself. Well, assignment is a bit of a lie. She figures that, with the Force—or the Manda—calling her this strongly, it’s her _duty_ as a Mandalorian to answer. She armors herself in her full beskar kit, drawing a long cloak around herself, and sets off to Manda’yaim. Her ship is fast but the call still beats in her veins, practically desperate to get there. She uses all of her experience as a pilot to navigate through skirmishes on the borders of the Empire. 

After the third firefight, she lands on a Skirata world to refuel and repair her ship. She still has favor with the Skiratas, and uses it to get aid and information on the current state of Mandalore. Mandalore the Conqueror is earning aer title, sending crusaders into Republic and unaligned space to spread the Empire. Ae were just crowned and already solidifying aer power, and Tarre _shouldn’t_ approve, but she does, and with that comes a dawning realization… she’s not really a Jedi anymore, is she? She’s far too Mandalorian to follow the Code now. 

The palace in Sundari is where the call leads her, to the throne of the Mandalore. Ae welcomes her into the throne room, sprawling across the throne with casual disregard for decorum. Aer buy’ce is on the seat next to aer, and it’s painted with _jaig eyes._ The symbol of the Crusaders is in black on aer chestplate, edged with gold. She’s worked with Mandalore the Conqueror before, but only over holo, never been in the same room as aer. Ae has a _presence_ in the Manda, and Tarre knows she’s with a true Mand’alor. 

She drops to a knee, taps her fist to her heart, and swears herself to the Mand'alor right there. Kneeling in beskar’gam, bowed before the Mand'alor, she's the very image of a Mandalorian. The Mand'alor commands her to rise, and she does, crossing the room in quick strides to stand near the throne. The room is empty of all onlookers, so Tarre feels at ease, comfortable with the pulse of Mandalore in her blood. The two Mando’ada stand overlooking the city. She is here to serve, she tells Mandalore the Conqueror, and watches a smile grow across aer face. This will be _glorious_.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a translations (most of these can probably be worked out through context):  
> haar jetii - the Jedi (singular)  
> mando'ada - Mandalorians (archaic)  
> beskar'gam - Mandalorian armor  
> Alor - leader, person in charge  
> Manda - the collective soul of all Mandalorians  
> Kad Ha'rangir - the Mandalorian god of chaos and growth  
> Arasuum - the Mandalorian god of stagnation and sloth  
> kute - an undersuit for Mandalorian armor  
> kama - a skirt used in combination with Mandalorian armor  
> beskar - Mandalorian iron  
> verd'goten - a rite of passage in Mandalorian culture where a Mandalorian becomes an adult  
> beskad - a Mandalorian sword  
> verda - warriors (archaic)  
> ada - children (archaic)  
> cin vhetin - lit. white field, the clean slate of a person becoming Mandalorian  
> osik - shit  
> Taung'ad - child of the Taung  
> aliit - clan  
> shebs - ass  
> ad - child  
> Mand'alor - leader of the Mandalorian people, lit. sole ruler
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at @tarrevizsla, where I'm always up to discuss Tarre and Mandalorian culture.


End file.
